Sick Enough to Drop
by Almost an Actress
Summary: The Lovely Ladies live lives that are grim and dark. Some are resigned to their fate; some wish to break free. But who are they? What are their stories? And who will give these broken souls a voice? (A series of rather dark poems inspired by the Lovely Ladies.)
1. The Lament of Sad-Eyes

"_God, I'm weary._

_Sick enough to drop._

_Belly feels like fire,_

_Will the bleedin' ever stop?"_

XXX

No one means t' become a whore,

But when all other work has become a chore,

And no one'll look at you twice

'Cept a man, who at first seemed so bloody _nice_,

But now beats you if you ain't up to snuff,

Well, then and there you've had enough.

But when you're skinny and dirty,

When you're starvin' and weak,

Confused and dizzy on your feet.

When his friendly eyes flash with evil,

You don't notice, 'cause your life's in upheaval.

You've got three little siblings at home,

And Maman is pregnant and all alone,

You're poor and your stomach is eatin' itself,

And Odette won't stop crying and

Pierre sold the shelf.

And Agnès is but two and don't know the world,

And you don't want t' show the horrors t' such a little girl.

You're only fourteen but you're awfully smart,

And though you're a gamin, you've got a kind heart.

And the man wants to help you and offers you food.

But he's a pimp and soon you're nude,

Under a man who's twice your age,

And you're sobbin' and chokin' on your own bloody _rage_.

Well, you're bleedin' something fierce,

And everything hurts,

And you're weary and sick,

And feel like you've been rubbed down to the quick.

But the man says to

"Put on a happy face,"

'Cause "plenty more like you if you can't keep up the pace."

And then you know you're one in a hundred sluts,

You're not special or different,

'Cept that yer nose juts.

And yer sobbin' again,

And life is dismal and dark.

But you're a Lovely Lady,

And that's now your mark.


	2. Margaux's Rhyme for Realists

There's a girl 'ere,

A skinny little scrap

With eyes quite sad.

I don't know 'er,

But I do know that 'er life's been bad.

She can't be but fourteen, this one

With the sunken eyes.

I see 'er sometimes, in 'er room,

When she curls up and cries.

She's feedin' her family, she says,

And she "don't care for sympathy."

But 'fore she died, Maman said

I was skilled with empathy.

But that don't mean I can fix 'er.

At this point, ain't no one who can.

So I keep to myself, and she does the same.

_But I observe 'er. _

We ain't friends, I suppose,

But you can't have friends here;

That 'ow it goes.

She looks 'appy tonight,

'Er face all alight.

Says that "Odette got a job; things'll be alright."

I don't 'ave the 'eart to tell 'er she's mistaken.

All the good things?

Well, damn, they've been taken.

Taken by the bourgeoisie,

Those 'appy folks.

To us whores, they're just jokes.

With grim faces we mock their

Fancy clothes, all the while achin'

For a man-free doze.

We laugh at their 'orses and carts,

Secretly hopin' with all of our hearts,

That we'll make it outta here

Before the groanin' and heavin' starts.

We titter on their 'appy kids,

Remembering when that was us.

But…back to the sad-eyed _fille_,

Enough about our fuss.

This Odette is nine, she says.

And Pierre –thirteen – is lookin' for work.

They're 'er siblings, they are.

And lookin' so fond, she sighs,

"The best brats I've known…by far."

Sad-Eyes thinks she's gettin'

Outta here.

I don't wanna shatter 'er,

And yet I whisper:

"My dear,

Stop dreamin'.

Don't you know you ain't

Ever redeemin'?

Hush now, babe,

Don't look so sad.

Otherwise you'll be screamin'

To no one.

To see ya suffer?

I ain't glad.

We were all there, my lamb,

It's true.

Wishin' and 'opin' and believin'…

Just like you.

Be 'appy for your brats,

But just keep doin'

What you're good at."

And so Sad-Eyes ain't 'appy no more.

She's just starin' at a spot of blood on the floor.

And somehow, I feel like I've

Ruined something great.

But I can't dwell on that.

Life is a war,

And though I've just killed this girl's hope,

I'm realistic.

_Oui_…she'll cope.


	3. Michelle, who will Soar

Everyone here is so…miserable.

I know I ought to be, too.

In fact, I suppose that it's odd

That I'm not.

I can hear some of them in the night.

They weep to themselves

For lost loves,

Staving siblings,

Or their bastard children.  
I feel…sad for them.

Sad that their loves or lost,

That their siblings are starving,

That their children are illegitimate.

And I feel sad that they're forced to do

What we do.

They often ask me why I'm here.

The one we call Sad-Eyes,

And the one – Margaux– who likes to watch her.

Those two always ask me.

I don't suppose I can tell them though.

The answer could make Sad-Eyes

Even sadder,

And Margaux even more cynical.

The rats that come here

Want happy girls,

Not morose, pensive ones.

I would be denying them their money.

The others would think I was full of spite.

So I keep my answer secret;

Locked away inside.

Only when I'm alone

Do I smile about it.

When everyone else is asleep,

Or when Monsieur is off looking for

New girls.

The ones like Sad-Eyes,

Who are gullible, starving,

Trusting.

Then I can break out in a grin.

Because, despite my grime-soaked skin,

And my snarled hair,

And my yellow teeth,

My reeking breath.

Despite my sallow mouth,

My weeping wounds,

And my big feet.

Despite those,

I know that I won't be here forever.

I know that I am above all of this.

This..."profession" that we do.

I know that if I clean my teeth,

Wash my body,

Comb out my hair,

Give a smile,

Some decent clothes,

It will all be okay.

And I _will_ do this.

I won't lay down and die here.

I am not resigned to this fate.

And when all of this hell is over,

You had better believe that

_I._

_Will._

_SOAR._


	4. Is Sad-Eyes Mad?

**Hello, my friends! Sorry that it's been so long since I've updated. I've tried to write this chapter – counting the final attempt – like three times. The words just wouldn't flow. I'm not happy with this, but it'll do. This is really just filler. I have a "vague ambition" in this story's "direction." Ha! ;) Anyhow, updates will be less frequent because being a freshman is hard! I adore high school so much, but there's a lot of work to be done, especially for theatre class. SO. MUCH. AWESOME. THEATRE. Okay, enjoy this!**

**Yours,**

**-Georgie**

Margaux taught me some stuff.

I'll never get outta 'ere,

And the bad men are rough.

She says to endure

And just bite 'ard on my tongue.

Death'll come soon enough,

And when it does,

An 'appy song'll be sung.

Sounds 'orrible, but the girls

Rejoice when one bites the dirt.

The kid's free from the tears

And the 'urt.

Last week it was Paulette;

It'll be Lorraine soon, I'd bet.

Odette visited me yesterday,

And just thinkin' 'bout it makes me sweat.

I sat 'er down, all official-like; mean,

And growled, "Is the 'ouse clean?

Is Pierre slackin' at 'is new job?

Get that boy in shape, you 'ear,

'E's thirteen, the slob.

Agnès can get work sweepin'

Stoops,

And I know the brat's but two,

But think of all the good it'll do.

Is Maman's 'ealth good?

And baby Henri's doin' well?

Everything's goin' the way it should?

Well, then outta here!

I gotta go be a _dégoûtant_ jezebel."

I feel sick with meanness,

Like some angry thing.

Sometimes, it's

All I can do to cling…

To sanity.

I'm losin' my mind,

I think,

And soon it'll be gone in a blink.

I'm always real sad,

Even when I smile.

Sometimes I forget to eat.

Even now it's been a while.

Margaux says she's worried,

But I don't respond.

I don't think I'm that strong.

These rattin' men are makin'

My soul die.

I yelled at my nine-year-old _soeur_,

And didn't look 'er in the eye.

The only friend I've got

Is a broken girl

Who 'ates the world.

I'm fourteen years old,

And a whore.

What can I do?

I won't ever 'ave more.

S'alright, though,

I guess.

I'm makin' it some'ow,

For my family's sake.

I'll just keep makin' it,

I s'pose,

Till one day

I wake…

In another world.


End file.
